


In the Beginning, There Was Probably a Dick

by Lumeleo



Category: Fandom - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Creation Myth, Gen, I Don't Even Know, ao3 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24923275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeleo/pseuds/Lumeleo
Summary: The Archive is an island, ever expanding and impossible to map, sitting in the middle of the Sea of Smut.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	In the Beginning, There Was Probably a Dick

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a mention of the AO3 website looking like a church page.  
> No, I really don't even know.

In the beginning there were fansites, there were forums and mailing lists and journals. But these were scattered about the Interwebs like beads from a string, their smut fields brought down by the Outsiders, hidden and lost and alone.

From this maelstrom rose the OTW, born from Fandom and born for Fandom, and OTW looked upon the Interwebs and said, “This is not good.” And lo, the will and force of Fandom was behind the OTW, and the fire of that will became the forge that brought forth the Archive.

The Archive welcomed one and all, fanworks of every form and shape, and Fandom brought their offerings to the feet of the Archive. There were many, and all of it found their place on the Archive.

There was the Sea of Smut from which the Archive first rose, an island to shelter all that was forbidden by the Outsiders. Its depths crawled with every manner of kink and creature, endless waves to quench any thirst. Any who wished to dive into the Sea could spend there the rest of their days, finding ever new reefs and grottoes full of endless wonder, while those more timid could simply dip their toes into it. There were streams running from the center of the Archive, from the Spring of Endless Thirst, carrying their water through every part of the island, so that even the works that did not fall into the Smut Sea could have a touch of the water if they needed it to grow. Upon these waves were countless ships, from grand battle fleets to creaky rafts, and each of these was captained by people each just as passionate as the next.

There was the City known as AU, where works drifted from their original nature and setting, finding new life and soul in different worlds. Flower shops and coffee shops and tattoo parlors stood at every corner, countless spies hid away from each other behind every corner, and no matter what one might look for they could surely find it in the sprawling streets of AU. This was where the happy were miserable, where those broken could find contentment, and every road diverged into a dozen because nothing could stay the same in this city. The Halls of the Living bordered the city, the place that brought life to each and every being who had ever perished, flooding the streets to live out the lives they were first denied.

There was the Darkfic Forest, home to the most miserable imaginings of the Fandom, violence and pain and hopelessness building their nests under a sunless sky. There was no sign of light to be found, yet there were those who chose to traverse the forest, and no matter how depraved their wishes they could find the deep shadows they craved.

The flower fields of Fluff spread across the land, filled with colorful blossoms and soft grass and sunshine. Everything was warm and soft and light here, it was impossible to walk through the fields without a smile, and rather than regular buildings this place was dotted with castles woven from clouds and dreams. The castles were all open to the eternal sunshine, with large windows that were perfect to buy curtains for.

Between the fields and the forest stood the Hospital of Hurt and Comfort, where wounds were treated and tears were kissed away, and this hospital kept the darkness and the light at a delicate balance. This was where pain turned to relief, where sorrow became sweet, and those who walked through the corridors were sure to find the comfort they craved.

An endless battlefield stretched out near the shore, the one where all Action came to bear. Warriors of every type clashed upon the field, escaping certain death only to rush into danger once again. This was where one thrill followed another, a life on a knife’s edge stretching out into an endless moment. By the edge of the battlefield was the port of Adventure, from which a thousand vessels and then thousand expeditions launched every day, seeking out excitement and treasure in every direction.

The kingdom of Romance held a different kind of excitement, the waves of conflict born from emotion and feeling rather than danger. This was where a kiss could be as impactful as a killing blow, where a misspoken word or a misunderstanding could bring more devastation than any beast or explosion. The kingdom held light and darkness both, was home to happily ever-afters and broken hearts alike, and every yearning heart would find its fulfillment, one way or another.

The mountains of Crossovers crawled across the land, their heights pierced by endless tunnels and caverns which would meet each other at the most unexpected points. This was where the strangest meetings could happen, where new friends and lovers and enemies could be made who never would have met each other otherwise. A daring explorer could find gold and gemstones in these caves, or else fall into the darkest pits, and no doubt that excitement was part of what drew them under the mountains.

Nobody truly knew when or how the Crack was formed, could not even agree where on the island it was. Every time anyone tried to pin it down it seemed to shift, crossing through every part of the Archive and none at all, adding the element of unexpected in the most innocuous places and turning the familiar into something strange.

The ground of the Archive was that of canon, and it grew bountiful fruit in every form and shape. There were the gardens of Compliancy, where everything was carefully shaped and pruned to fit what existed, never to stray outside the appropriate frame yet beautiful in their own constraints. There were the fields of Fix-It, where tears watered the ground that grew sweet fruits that could take those tears away, where what went wrong was made right again. There were bridges crossing the gaps of what wasn’t there, holes patched over and structures strengthened, and everything was made strong and great and then torn down again only to be rebuilt.

There was more on the island, more than anyone could ever see in one lifetime, and every day that passed the Archive grew even larger. There was the mansion of Mystery, where every night a new play of intrigue took place, where nothing was what it looked like and the walls were built from secrets and clues. There was the Hall of Humor, where laughter echoed off the walls, and the House of Horror, where the only thing to be heard were screams and rasping breaths. There was the trench of Alpha and Omega, a depth that could take the clueless unawares, and the carefully organized offices of Casefic, with every last clue detailed in meticulously kept folders.

Not everything on the Archive was a story or a poem or an anecdote, of course. There were stories spoken around campfires and songs sung in the night, there were images illustrating every corner of the island and bringing it all to life. There was the Library of Meta, where people recorded their thoughts from brief observations to lengthy dissertations, and the Challenge Grounds where they prompted each other to create new and exciting things, and the Marketplace of Exchanges where works were traded and gifted alike.

There were dark places, too, not simply the depths of the Darkfic Forest. The island welcomed all fanworks, and they did mean all, and this in turn meant there were places on the island that were distasteful for most inhabitants. However, there was space for everything, and the shadowed secrets did not take away anything from the rest of the island. Most were marked by clear signs to keep away the curious, and even if one were to stumble upon one they could always back away. None were held prisoner in the Archive. Not unless they wanted to be, anyway, for which the Basement of BDSM could provide.

The Archive was not prefect, it was always growing and developing and changing, and those who cared for it were constantly striving to make it better. The Knights of PAC rode out to wherever evildoers were reported, the army of Wranglers built paths and signs to help people find what they were looking for, the clerics of Support healed hurts and the coders kept the ground strong and solid underneath their feet. There were other caretakers, too, each doing their own part to keep the island beautiful, and while it was still flawed and lacking in some ways it was still beautiful.

And the OTW looked upon the Archive and said, “This Is Our Own,” and then they finally got a pony.


End file.
